where the lonely go
by just drifting
Summary: "She hadn't even realised she'd been crying, not until Alex's fingers come away wet, not until Alex presses her lips to the very corner of Maggie's eye and she notices her eyelashes feel damp fluttering against Alex's skin." The alien bar is attacked, Maggie's safe space is violated, a community she had connected with is devastated... Maggie is not as unaffected as she see


It's cold. She should be aware of more; much, much more – the celebrant is still speaking, her voice melodious and lilting and kind and Maggie should be paying attention, she should, she should, but _it's cold_. That's fitting, isn't it? That's how it should be, she thinks. The late morning sun shines only weakly, no warmth to it, and last night's frost still glitters on the grass. It clings to the edges of the stone the city had commissioned for the victims, curls into the indentations that spell out far too many names – and worse, she thinks, far too many unnamed, too many unidentified; those without connection, without family, without friends, from worlds and galaxies away who came looking for community and died for it.

She runs her eyes over each of the names carved into the stone, traces over every line, every curve, even though she could already recall each letter with her eyes closed. She's memorised every name by now, has held them one by one in her chest. It's not much, maybe it doesn't mean anything at all, but it's something, _something_ she can do, her own little way to pay her respects to the people she had known, to the people she hadn't. The bartender who worked every second Friday and flirted good-naturedly with Maggie every time she came in. The kid she'd laughingly taught to play darts months and months ago. The girl she'd done shots with up at the bar one night, quietly commiserating over their respective breakups. The old man who seemed practically to live in one of the booths and loved to tell anyone who would listen stories of his home world, his many lifetimes.

Maggie hadn't known any of them well, really. She wasn't the type to make friends, had never been any good at it, and despite how kind, how accepting almost everyone in the bar was, there had often been something of a wariness around the knowledge that she was there, yes, as a comrade, as an ally, there to drink and relax and feel safe just like the rest of them; but that she came also for information, for leads, for the job. Most were happy to oblige, because she was doing good work, she was helping, but trust was a tricky thing for all of them there and a police officer, no matter how genuine she seemed, was hardly the safest choice.

But she'd understood them, she thinks. And they'd understood her too. Ultimately it's not just how well she had known each of the victims that has her reeling, has her aching so acutely. That bar, those people, they had been _hers_ , a community of outcasts just like herself that she had felt safe with, at home with. Every time she set foot in that place she had felt calm, almost instantly at ease, surrounded by people who may not have had exactly the same experiences as her, but who got it all the same. Who needed an escape from the oppressive pressure of the norm, the acceptable, just like she did. And together, they'd found it in a dark, dingy little bar with cheap tap beer and a never ending supply of country songs.

Until they hadn't anymore.

Maggie's police and she's gay; she's used to violence, to intolerance. But even so it's hard to comprehend the extent to which their sanctuary has been violated, the intensity of the hatred that must have been needed to motivate the attack.

The mayor begins speaking, empty condolences and insincere platitudes. It grates at Maggie. She hates that the press are gathered only a little ways away from the service, hates that this is a spectacle as much as it is a memorial, hates that so many who genuinely belong, who deserve the chance to mourn and remember with their community, their friends, have been forced to stay away for fear of exposure, just because the mayor wanted to pretend she actually gave a damn about aliens.

Her captain had asked Maggie to speak; had thought with the recent busts she'd made, her outspoken concern for alien rights, the shoulder wound she'd taken from the man who'd planted the bomb, that she'd make the perfect spokesperson. But Maggie had declined. There was no way she could stand up and face the crowd of people she still felt, however irrationally, she had failed by not somehow stopping this tragedy; there was no way she could string together the right words to explain the hurt she felt, the desperate sadness, the guilt, the churning emotions she still hadn't entirely made sense of. And she had no interest in paying lip service to the NCPD that often had so little regard for the very people they were here to remember.

She had worn her uniform, though. She'd worn her uniform because... _Fuck_ , she doesn't even know now. Because she'd had this thought that it might _mean_ something, a city official there not just for maintaining public relations, not just for image, but because she _cares_ , because she understands and she'd come because she wants to- _needs_ to be here, because she has one foot in that official world and one foot in theirs, because she _hurts_ too, because... She doesn't know. It seems like a stupid idea now and she feels hyper visible in her cop blue surrounded by so much black.

The uniform makes her stand out, others her in a way that, yeah, she's more than used to by now, but that she hadn't wanted here, not now, not in memory of a place where she had genuinely felt she belonged. Despite her thick shirt and pants, the sun still hasn't touched the cold and she fights a shiver. Her neck itches, her back too, and she can't tell if it's the too-stiff, scratchy material of her uniform shirt or the suspicious, wary stares directed her way that's the cause. Either way, she wants desperately to squirm, to pull at her sleeves, run her hands through her hair, stamp her feet, _something_ to dispel the discomfort that grows and grows and grows as the service goes on.

A hand settles gently over her shoulder, as if sensing the anxiety, the restlessness churning inside her. She looks up to find Alex, a sweet smile at the corner of her mouth. Maggie opens her mouth to ask her why she's come, but looking at Alex's open face, the comfort of her hand on her shoulder, of course she already knows. Alex is here because she cares. A sudden warmth spreads thickly through her, not quite enough to drive away the morning's chill, but it feels nice all the same.

Alex wears a dark grey coat that buttons all the way up her neck and tight black slacks, her hair sleek and straight. There's a slight breeze blowing that catches at the ends of her coat and twists through her hair. Draped over her other arm is an extra black coat because...of course she did. Of course she did. Because Alex cares. Alex had raged through National City to rescue Maggie before she'd even hardly known her. Alex had been terrified and confused and overwhelmed by a huge, life-changing realisation and she'd still sought out Maggie to make sure she was okay. Alex had been there immediately after Maggie had been hurt, not leaving her side until she was convinced she was well and truly alright. _Alex_ _cares_.

She holds the coat out and Maggie wordlessly slips her arms inside, lets Alex pull it up over her shoulders. Carefully brushing her hair out from under the coat's collar, Alex's fingers drift over the base of Maggie's neck, steady and reassuring. Maggie buttons up, feeling immediately not only warmer but less conspicuous now that her uniform jacket is out of sight. She has to resist the urge to nuzzle against her collar; the coat smells of Alex, distinct and entirely familiar now. Comfort and warmth surround her, and when Alex's cool, calloused hand slips into hers, Maggie exhales for what feels like the first time that morning.

With the quiet, solid support of Alex just beside her, the rest of the service is easier. Her thoughts don't drift anymore; her mind quiets like it always seems to in Alex's presence. There's something deeply moving about it all, there is; weak sunshine reflecting off the frosted stone, making it shimmer, as a survivor speaks about community, about safety, about love. The words resonate with her, echo through her chest, much more personal, more emotional, than the earlier speakers.

The service draws to a close as a small group she's seen at the bar a few times begin to sing in an alien language Maggie doesn't know, the unusual sound haunting and melancholy. The mayor moves off for one final photo opportunity, and with the striking song guiding them away, the service-goers begin to disperse. Conversation starts up again and amidst the chatter and movement, Alex tugs gently on her arm, drawing Maggie out of the way of the crowd. She pulls Maggie in towards her, until they're so close Maggie can see the individual freckles over Alex's nose, just visible under her foundation.

Alex untangles their hands to bring both of hers to Maggie's face. Her fingers run through Maggie's hair, pushing it back out of the way, then trail down past her ears to cup her cheeks, running her thumbs gently, so gently, under Maggie's eyes. She hadn't even realised she'd been crying, not until Alex's fingers come away wet, not until Alex presses her lips to the very corner of Maggie's eye and she notices her eyelashes feel damp fluttering against Alex's skin.

"Thank you," she says when Alex pulls away, her hands settling over Maggie's shoulders and throat.

"Always," she answers easily. The first time Maggie had thanked Alex, she'd answered _'Anytime'_. Now it's always. Now Maggie doesn't even have to ask. Now Alex knows immediately, instinctively, just want she needs. Now Alex is here, without hesitation.

Maggie lets her fingers trail over Alex's sides, feeling the warmth of her even through her coat. She wants to hold on more, wants to sink into Alex, but over Alex's shoulder she can see Darla approaching, and reluctantly she pulls her hands away.

"Hey Mags," Darla says, her voice low and tired like Maggie's never heard before. Her nod towards Alex is hardly even hostile.

"Hey. I'm glad you're okay." She pulls Darla into a friendly hug. She feels familiar, but it's funny how things change, how it's nothing anymore like the comfort, the intimacy, of being in Alex's arms.

"Yeah." Darla's shrug looks like it's meant to be casual but it comes across stiff, hurt. "It wasn't my shift. It was..." she trails off.

Maggie reaches out, touches her hand gently. "I know."

Darla shrugs again. "Do you still not have any leads?" she asks, the accusation in her tone not quite hidden.

Maggie shifts from foot to foot, knowing such a question had to be coming but unprepared all the same. "We got the head of Cadmus," she offers, though she knows it's hardly enough.

"You really think that's enough to destroy them? What about the guy who did this?" Darla seems sceptical, and Maggie really doesn't blame her.

"We're working on it."

Darla's mouth twists. Maggie feels put on the spot; feels guilty and ineffective and useless. "I'm sorry," she says.

"Yeah." Darla looks less than impressed. She shrugs for a third time, then nods at Maggie and Alex, ready to move on. "See you 'round, Maggie."

"Take care of yourself," Maggie insists. It's not until Darla's back is turned that she lets her shoulders slump. She hates this impotence, hates how little they know still. It feels like they're chasing ghosts, Cadmus just impossible to nail down.

Alex steps in closer again, taking her hand and pressing soothing little kisses to Maggie's knuckles. "You know, Cadmus has my dad," she says, squeezing Maggie's hand. "They hurt my family too."

And Maggie breathes, breathes, because Alex _gets it_. Alex, who had tried to pull a gun her first time in the bar; Alex, who hunts aliens for a living, who'd had to be convinced they could be good too; Alex – beautiful, opinionated, _stubborn_ Alex – who'd changed her mind because of Maggie, _for_ Maggie. Alex understands and she holds Maggie's hand tighter and her eyes blaze and she tells her they will stop Cadmus, promises her there will be justice, for both their families.

Maggie straightens her back, lifts her chin. She's never known anyone quite like Alex before; so driven, so resolute. Things feel far more possible, far more attainable with Alex by her side. As they head towards the exit of the cemetery, she notices the frost has finally melted off the grass, allowing a brilliant green to shine through under their feet. The hurt of this attack still slices at Maggie's insides, and maybe it always will, but Alex's presence beside her, Alex's strength, it makes Maggie feel stronger too. She leans up on her toes to press a lingering kiss just below Alex's ear. Alex turns to smile down at her, so warm, so soft, and she's so entirely everything that Maggie could ever need that she can't help the upturn of her mouth in response, her first smile of the day.


End file.
